


A Sound Investment

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Extra Treat, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-04-23 23:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19160854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: All the trainees at the Tarkovsky Theatre are exceptional, but there's only one that catches Winston's eye.





	A Sound Investment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).



> Although this is set pre-canon, there are references to aspects of the John Wick universe that are only revealed in the third movie.
> 
> I wouldn't call them spoilers as they don't really have any bearing on the movie's plot, but if you haven't seen it yet and you want to be completely unspoiled, you may want to wait until you have seen it before reading this fic.
> 
> Chinese translation is available here: http://www.mtslash.me/thread-293414-1-1.html

“An impressive group this year, Director.” Winston pauses on his walkthrough to admire the form of a ballerina being lifted into the air. “Most impressive.”

“Your continued patronage honours us, Winston,” the Director replies. 

“As your continued offering of first choice to the hotel honours us.” 

She smiles in acknowledgement as she gestures for him to enter the next room. 

“The Roma Ruska here understand the value of cooperation with management,” she says. “Especially the management of a Continental with such a storied reputation.” 

“You flatter me.” 

Winston is smiling but he knows there’s something sharp in his eyes now, a signal that he’s fully aware of the fact that despite the formality of the world they live in, sometimes words are just that — words. He can see the moment when the Director hears the unspoken warning, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face. Good, he thinks. Mutual admiration is one thing, but the hierarchies exist for a reason — as do the rules. 

“Now,” Winston adds, “to business?”

“Of course.” 

They walk down a short hallway and end up in another room filled with trainees, this time exclusively male. Most are in wrestling gear, and all are watching the two students in the makeshift ring in the centre of the room. Or — no, Winston realises. Only one of them is a student. The other one is in a slightly different uniform, and after easily flipping and pinning his opponent to the ground in what looks like a very painful position, Winston realises he also looks a little older, too. A young man, then, not a boy — long limbs already filled out with lean muscle, a sheen of sweat on his pale face. 

He says something in Russian as he helps the student to his feet, pushing a long lock of dark hair out of his eyes. His voice is clipped but not unkind, and the student nods, listening closely. All the students, in fact, are listening closely. Faces upturned, eager for advice. Or approval.

“One of our most promising,” the Director says, seeing where Winston’s gaze is caught. 

“He’s not a student?”

The Director hesitates for a moment. “No,” she says. “In truth, he surpassed many of his teachers some time ago.”

“And yet he hasn’t been on offer before.” Winston turns to face her. There’s a slightly pinched look on the Director’s face now, as though trapped between a potential lie and an admission of truth. “Perhaps I was premature in assuming we still had first choice?”

“Not at all,” she says quickly. “He simply hasn’t been ready before.”

Winston looks pointedly at the ring again, where the young man in question is taking down student after student, one after another, with seemingly no effort at all. 

“Physical ability is one thing,” the Director says, “but you know as well as I do that there’s more to serving the Table than that.”

Winston’s curiosity rises. 

“How intriguing,” he murmurs. “Is he on offer now?”

The Director takes a breath. 

“For you, Winston? Yes.” 

She calls out — not in Russian, but a different Slavic language that Winston doesn’t recognise — and the young man looks up. He glances at Winston before obediently walking over, although the expression on his face is very carefully and deliberately blank.

“Director,” he greets with a nod.

“I'd like to introduce you to someone,” she says. “This is Winston. He's the manager of The Continental here in New York.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you...” Winston trails off, holding out a hand, waiting for a name — and keeps on waiting, as the young man stares at his outstretched hand for several long seconds before finally taking it. His grip is strong and his palm is very warm.

“John,” he says. He looks up and meets Winston’s gaze, but the look on his face remains completely unreadable. 

“John,” Winston repeats. “Short for Jonathan, perhaps?”

John lets go of his hand and looks briefly at the Director. “It could be.”

Winston can’t help the smile that spreads across his face at that. “Quite,” he says. John’s gaze flicks back to him, a trace of surprise in his eyes. “I’m a manager, Jonathan,” Winston adds. “I know that isn’t your real name.”

“And what is a name but a word?” the Director asks. “It has little meaning, beyond what you yourself give it.”

“Especially in our line of work,” Winston agrees. 

“Are you here for a transaction?” John asks. 

On the surface he’s all calm politeness but Winston can see something seething in the depths of his dark eyes, an instinct that Winson knows is very, very rare. It can’t be taught, or learned, and with sudden certainty he knows that this will be John’s last night at the Tarkovsky Theatre, the last time he’ll ever wear that uniform or be bound to the Director’s call. From tomorrow onwards, John will never have to answer to anything less than the High Table itself.

“I am,” Winston says.

John gives him a brief once-over, a swift sweep of his gaze up and down. 

“It’s not that kind of transaction,” the Director interjects, and Winston’s eyebrows rise.

“What kind of transaction did you expect, Jonathan?” he asks, feigning surprise even though he knows exactly what the Director had meant.

John shrugs. “Well-dressed men come here to buy something, they generally only want one thing.” 

“And yet,” Winston points out, “you didn’t refuse outright.”

“The Director directs,” John says simply. “We play our parts.” 

“Even when you have no interest?”

John looks him dead in the eye.

“I didn’t say that.”

Winston huffs a small, surprised laugh. What a fascinating young man, he thinks. Expensive, no doubt — there's no way the Director hasn’t taken note of his interest. No surprises there, and no impropriety, either; it's her right to name her price. Still, Winston is sure the initial costs will be worth it, in time. 

“You don’t seem to say much at all,” he observes. 

John shrugs again. “It seems… unnecessary.”

“For people like you, Jonathan,” Winston replies, “I suppose it is.”

Something flickers in John’s eyes, there and gone before it ever fully surfaces. 

“People like me?”

Winston smiles. “Like what you’re going to become,” he corrects. 

“You mean, what you’re going to turn me into.” 

“John,” the Director admonishes. “Do not presume to know what a manager plans to do with you.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Director,” Winston says. “He’s free to speculate. But —” Winston turns to John and allows his gaze to harden, just enough to underline how heavily John’s future depended on Winston’s next words. “When all is said and done, I hope you remember this conversation.”

John frowns a little. “Why?”

“Because when I’m done with you, Jonathan, you’ll understand what I mean when I say that whatever I turn you into —” Winston pauses and watches John's frown deepen. “It will be something you always were to begin with. Every choice has a consequence. Isn’t that right, Director?”

“We serve,” she says, inclining her head. Her eyes are grave and knowing.

“We are of service,” Winston agrees.

John just watches them, wary and alert, and says nothing at all.

***

Winston doesn’t believe in wasting in time. He makes arrangements for John to start training as soon as the transaction is complete.

“Have the details been sent to the Table, Charon?”

“Yes, they have.” Charon glances up from the ledger, cross-checking the details with the records the Director had sent over earlier that day. “I feel I should I inform you, sir, that they expressed considerable surprise at the news.”

“Did they?” Winston asks, amused. 

Charon nods. “Not just that you had personally bought an apprentice for the first time in years, but also at the amount of coin you exchanged for him.” 

“Hmm.” Winston leans back in his chair. “It seems Jonathan will have a reputation that precedes him even before he officially joins our ranks.” 

“You are confident that he’ll pass his training.”

It’s an observation, not a question, and Winston raises his martini glass in acknowledgement of what Charon is really saying: that John is far, far more than a new apprentice. He's a long-term investment, and a major one at that — the likes of which a manager hasn’t made in a very long time. 

“Oh, he won’t just pass, Charon,” Winston says quietly. “He’ll excel.”

Charon simply inclines his head, neither agreeing or disagreeing, just accepting the statement as fact. 

“Have you given any thought to his curriculum?” he asks, putting the ledger away and pulling a different book off one of the office shelves.

“I have, yes.” Winston pauses, thoughtful. “Harry for theory. Marcus for practical application. And you, Charon, for etiquette.”

Charon nods again. His face remains calmly detached but Winston gets the distinct impression that he’s really quite pleased. Charon isn't much older than John; being asked to tutor a new recruit at such a young age is no small thing. He flips through the book, fingers skimming the pages until he finds the entries that he’d been looking for. 

“I can confirm that both Harry and Marcus are currently in New York City,” he says. “And neither have exclusive contracts at the moment.”

“Excellent. Inform them of their tasks and arrange for advance payment of half their going rate, with the remainder to be paid upon completion.” Winston takes a generous sip of his drink. “If they protest, offer them double.”

Charon’s hand pauses as he enters the details in the book. 

“Double,” he repeats. “Noted.” He marks the additional information on the appropriate pages. “And the final tutor, sir?”

Winston pulls the toothpick out of his martini and slowly bites into the olive at the end of it. Salt bursts over his tongue as he remembers how easily Jonathan took his opponents down, how he observed everything but said virtually nothing. One part was easy to understand — purely physical, just trained movements of limbs and muscle and bone; and one part that was far, far more intriguing. 

“Me,” Winston answers. He licks his lips and finishes his drink. “Jonathan’s final teacher will be me.”

***

Winston pushes the pile of coins across the table and ignores the look Harry gives him, making a show of flipping through the report he’d been given instead. 

“When Charon told me I shouldn’t spare any expense on this kid,” Harry says, “I didn’t think you were under that directive, too.” 

“You’ve performed a valuable service, Harry.” Winston shrugs, deliberately casual. “And I always give adequate compensation for services rendered.” 

“This is a lot more than adequate, Winston.” Harry puts the coins away slowly, one by one, each clink as they drop into his wallet like some kind of repeated accusation. “Especially since I barely had to teach him anything at all.”

Winston looks up from the report he wasn’t reading and sits up. “What do you mean?”

Harry gives him the courtesy of turning away a little, trying to hide his smile. It’s a small thing, but it highlights the fact that they belong to an older generation of players in the game — that this elaborate dance of indirect confrontation and tacit admission is a throwback to the kind of genteel behaviour that most of their colleagues would probably find quaint now. Winston appreciates the sentiment, even as he’s irritated by the implication.

“We’ve known each other too long, Winston,” Harry says, and shakes his head. “Don’t even bother playing coy with me. That kid is _not_ your typical apprentice.”

“Of course he’s not. I told you, he’s from the Tarkovsky —”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry interrupts, “and you know it.”

Winston waits for a more direct blow but Harry stays silent. As well he should, Winston thinks, and sighs a little. No sense bothering with an outright attack when it seemed likely that your target would just do your job for you.

“I’m not made of _stone_ , Harry,” Winston says, allowing annoyance to bleed into his voice. “Nor am I blind.” He pointedly ignores it when Harry just smirks at him. “Now, tell me the real details. The things that you didn’t put in this report.”

Harry spreads his hands and shrugs. “What’s there to say? He already learned what you wanted me to teach him when he was still at the theatre. Anatomy, strategy, planning — he’s got it all down.”

“He passed your tests?”

“Flying colours, every one.”

“Hmm.” Winston’s gaze turns thoughtful. So Jonathan had the theory covered already. It gave him an advantage, to be sure, but book knowledge was meaningless in their world without the practical skill to apply it. “And what is he like on a personal level? You know what I mean,” Winston adds quickly, when Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Not much I can say to that, either,” he replies. “He’s not exactly one for small talk.” He pauses and gives Winston an assessing sort of look, one that makes the back of Winston’s neck prickle.

“What?” Winston asks, narrowing his eyes, unsure if he really wants an answer or not.

“He did ask about you, though.”

“Oh?”

Harry nods. “About the… _privileges_ afforded to a manager.”

“Did he now,” Winston murmurs, and smiles. He expects another smirk but Harry's eyes are surprisingly serious.

“Don’t underestimate him, Winston," Harry warns. "He’s — I meant what I said earlier. He is _not_ a typical apprentice. Not by a long shot.”

But Winston’s smile just widens. 

“Oh, Harry,” he says. “Why do you think I bought him in the first place?”

***

“I don’t understand why this is necessary.”

“It’s not for you to understand, Jonathan.” Winston slowly circles the chair John is sitting in, running a critical eye over what he sees. “At this point in time, your only role is to obey.”

John’s own eyes never leave Winston’s face when he’s within his line of sight, watching him closely. John was always watching — everyone, everything, forever taking in information and silently filing it away. 

“Obey _you_ , you mean?” he asks. His voice is deliberately bland and Winston bites back a smile.

“Anyone who sits above you in the Table’s hierarchy,” Winston corrects. “Which at the moment, is essentially everyone.”

“Including you,” John insists. There it is again, Winston thinks, pressing a hand against John’s shoulder blade to correct his posture. That single-minded focus, that instinctive need to see things through. It’s unclear yet whether it would be a help or a hindrance to him, but for now, Winston is pleased to see it.

“Including me,” Winston concedes. His hand lingers, sweeping across John’s back, fingers grazing the bare skin at the nape of his neck. John barely reacts, the tiniest of shivers passing through him, but he does still react. 

He waits until Winston is standing right in front of him again, until they’re face-to-face and he can look Winston in the eye, before he speaks again.

“And which of your orders should I obey, Winston?” John asks. His voice is quiet, bordering on submissive, but his eyes are anything but — bright with a gleam of sardonic amusement, a challenge somewhere in their dark, guarded depths.

Winston considers him for a moment before stepping behind him again. He pauses there, dragging out the anticipation, letting John wait. And then without any warning he wraps his fingers around John’s throat and pulls him hard against the back of the chair. Winston squeezes a little, not cutting off his air supply but tight enough that the threat is clear. He leans down and makes sure that his lips brush John’s ear when he finally answers the question.

“I’d start,” he says softly, “with telling you not to assume you know why I brought you here.” He feels John shiver again, but this one is far more pronounced and nowhere near as controlled. “Pretty young men are a dime a dozen in this city, Jonathan, but until you pass all your tests, until you’ve proven to me that you respect the rules and understand _why_ you need to obey them, then —” Winston tightens his grip and straightens up, forcing John to tip his head further back. “Until then,” he repeats, “you are nothing more than one of those dimes. And I don’t waste my time on small change. Do you understand this, Jonathan?”

He manages to nod, and Winston abruptly lets him go.

John goes to rub his throat — which will definitely be mottled with bruises in a few hours — but stops with his hand halfway there. He glances over as Winston steps around the chair again, then slowly lowers his hand. Winston smiles approvingly. 

“You’re a fast learner, Jonathan. I appreciate that.” He leans back against the edge of the desk behind him. “And to answer your initial protest, this is necessary because appearances play an important role for those of us who live in the Table’s shadow. They are a symbol of the parts we play and when and how we play them.” 

Winston moves forward to fix the line of John’s back again, but John shifts before he’s even taken a single step, moving into the correct posture on his own. 

“Clothing — your uniform — is a separate lesson altogether,” Winston continues. “Today, we’ll concentrate on posture and body language.” He straightens his cuffs and adjusts the collar of his suit jacket, before leaning back a little further, tilting his hips a little higher. “What is my body language telling you right now?”

John gives him a slow, thorough once-over.

“It’s inviting me to look,” he says. “And _only_ look.”

Winston nods. “Exactly.” 

“And if I pass the tests? If take the vows?” 

Winston reaches up and loosens his tie. Just a little, just enough to spoil the pristine line of his suit by the smallest, tiniest degree. John’s gaze sharpens.

“Then you’ll be granted the privileges we all share, Jonathan.” Winston smiles again, slowly, and watches as heat floods John’s face, as his throat moves when he swallows. “You will be permitted to serve.”

John’s fingers twitch, but he otherwise stays perfectly still.

“I’ll pass,” he says, quiet and so irrefutably certain that Winston doesn’t doubt him for a second. “I promise you, Winston. I’ll pass.”

***

“Harry told me what to expect but I have to admit, it still took me by surprise.” 

Winston pours Marcus a generous glass of wine — a 1978 Marquis d’Angerville, no less — and doesn’t bother hiding his satisfaction. There’s little point in doing so; his choice of wine was something of a giveaway already.

“Impressed, were you?” He holds the bottle up to Charon in silent offer, but Charon shakes his head. 

“Thank you, sir, but I prefer water.” 

“Ascetic as always, Charon,” Marcus remarks. “You’re making me feel positively hedonistic.” Charon smiles thinly and doesn’t reply. “And to answer your question, Winston,” Marcus adds, “I’m not sure ‘impressed’ is the word I’d use.” 

“What word _would_ you use?” 

Marcus glances at Charon, who simply shrugs.

“He’s already very skilled,” Charon says. “But so are many of the new apprentices. Sofia, for example. And yet —”

“And yet your boy is in a league of his own,” Marus interrupts. “But you already knew that.”

“He passed, then?” Winston asks, not bothering to deny it. 

“Of course he did.” Marcus takes a long sip of his wine. “Anyone can learn how to use a gun, how to hit a target. But there are some things you can’t teach, the things that make one person good and another person exceptional. And this kid...” Marcus shakes his head. “His spatial awareness alone — I swear, if I didn’t know any better I’d say he almost had a sixth sense for it.” 

Winston pages though the test results and raises his eyebrows.

“No one’s scored this highly since —”

“Me,” Marcus says. He flashes a rueful grin, apparently as put out by John’s results as he is amused at Winston’s reaction. “Like I said, Harry told me what to expect. But after passing the theoretical tests, it’s like someone lit a fire under the kid’s ass and he became determined to become the best apprentice we’ve ever had.” 

“Yes,” Charon agrees, voice drier than the Sahara. “Someone lit a... fire.”

“Charon,” Winston chides. “I’d expect that from Marcus, but from you? You wound me.”

“You know where my loyalties lie, sir,” he replies, a trace of a smile on his lips. “But your interest in this particular apprentice has not gone unnoticed, and not just by us.” He pauses, then adds, “Nor has it gone unnoticed by John himself.”

“It’s like he’s on fast forward,” Marcus says. “Like he’s trying to finish his training as fast as he can.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Winston replies blandly, and ignores the look that Charon and Marcus share in favour of pouring himself another glass of wine. “In any case, he still has one more test to pass before I can send him abroad for more advanced studies.”

“Oh?" Marcus lifts his wine to his lips again, eyes lighting over the rim of the glass. “Which one?”

“Pretence doesn’t suit you, Marcus,” Winston says. Beside him, Charon laughs quietly. “You know very well which test it is.” He licks his lips, chasing the taste of ripe fruit and iron and a strange, saline tang. A taste, appropriately, not unlike blood. “The final test is the one _I_ need to give him.”

***

Winston runs his fingers over the suits hanging from the rack he’d had moved to his office. Jackets and slacks of the finest wool, a selection of crisp cotton shirts, a rainbow array of woven silk ties. And beside it all are several mahogany cases filled with dozens of accessories — cufflinks and tie clips, lapel pins and collar bars. Everything is sorted by colour, from darkest to lightest, but they both know the choice is inevitable.

John’s suit will be black.

John himself says nothing, though, not about his colour preferences nor about the fact that he’s currently standing in the middle of Winston’s office, wearing nothing but thin boxer briefs and an intent, watchful stare. 

If he’s embarrassed or uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it. _We play our parts_ , John had said, when he’d still been under the impression that Winston was at the theatre looking to make a different sort of purchase. Perhaps he’s been through something like this before, Winston muses. But — no, he thinks, glancing over at John’s still and silent form. John showed no discomfort or embarrassment simply because he didn’t feel either of those things. He was simply… waiting.

“You understand, by now, the importance of your uniform?” Winston steps away from the rack of suits and starts circling John instead. He gets a single nod in response. “Explain it to me, Jonathan.”

“It’s a mental switch,” John replies. “With every piece we put on — shirt, tie, cufflinks, belt — the more fully we become what we promised the Table we’d be.”

“And that is?” Winston runs his gaze over the tattoo on John’s back, the holy cross and the praying hands and the Latin phrase that sits above it: _fortis fortuna adiuvat_. “What is the transformation that takes place?”

“We become more than what we were,” John answers, as Winston steps around until they’re facing each other again. “Our hands hold life and death,” he recites, “our eyes see only targets. And our clothing —”

“Yes?”

John meets his eyes.

“Our clothing becomes our armour.”

“Excellent, Jonathan,” Winston murmurs. He deliberately fills his voice with just enough approval to see the faint flush he gets in response, a wash of pink warming John’s skin. It’s not lost on either of them that John’s words only underline the fact that here, at this very moment, alone and stripped to the skin in Winston’s office with the door locked and faint, pre-dawn light obscuring Winston’s face, John is defenceless in more ways than one. 

“I know you’ve already passed the test,” Winstons adds, “but would you indulge me one last time?” 

“Last?” John asks. “Really?”

He’s pushing it, he knows he’s pushing it, but Winston is feeling a little indulgent today. He smiles and shrugs.

“Once you take your vows and we add your name to the Directory, you no longer have to follow my rules. You’ll only be bound by the two that we’re _all_ bound by.”

Neither of them bother stating what they are. Instead, John just continues to watch him in silence, searching his eyes for an answer to a question that they’re both fully aware of but have never once spoken aloud. 

Not that it mattered, really. Winston heard it anyway, and he’d always known what the answer would be. Eventually. 

“Then by all means, Winston,” John says, answering the initial question, “indulge yourself.” He pauses, then adds with a twist of his lips, “ _Please_.”

Winston shakes his head a little. John’s test results gave him every right to be cocky but he only ever showed flashes of it at moments like these — when his cockiness didn’t actually have anything to do with his skill with a gun. A sixth sense, Marcus had said. Evidently it was true on more than one level.

But Winston merely thanks him, knowing the lack of a definitive response will be a far more effective tool than any sort of paper-thin denial. John may have a preternatural awareness of his surroundings but Winston has been serving the Table for over a decade. No one was going to get the upper hand with him in his very own office, least of all an apprentice who hadn’t even taken his vows yet. 

A lesson, clearly, is in order. 

Winston makes his choices quickly — shirt, tie, belt. Black cotton, black silk, black leather. Collar bar and cufflinks of plain, polished silver. Jacket and slacks, also black, cut specifically for John’s body and John’s body alone. They’ll follow the long lines of his deceptively strong limbs, Winston knows, and transform him from the quiet young man standing almost naked before him and into something else entirely: a ruthlessly efficient, single-minded emissary of death itself. Into the very last thing that countless people would ever get to see.

 _Fortis fortuna adiuvat_ , Winston thinks. True enough, but there was more than one way to bend fortune to your will. Knowing when to be prudent, when and how to hold back, could be an equally effective tactic.

Winston removes the shirt from the hanger and steps closer. John reaches out to take it but freezes when Winston cuts him a warning glance.

“Perhaps I’ve been too lenient with you,” Winston murmurs, before looking John in the eye and staring him down until, finally, John lowers his gaze. Winston grabs his jaw.

“No,” he says quietly. “You look away when I _tell_ you to look away. And you look when I tell you to look.” His other hand skims John’s side, fingers only just grazing the bare skin of his waist, his ribs, his hip. John inhales sharply but otherwise stays very still. “You know I’ve seen what you’ve been offering me, don’t you, Jonathan?”

“Yes.”

Winston sweeps his hand across John’s flat, muscled stomach. “And you know why I’ve never taken it?” 

John swallows thickly. “I’m still small change,” he answers. Winston smiles suddenly, surprised and pleased that John remembered.

“Exactly.” He leans in closer, squeezes John’s jaw tighter, and lets his other hand drift lower and lower. Heat and hardness meet his fingers and Winston’s smile widens. “You may have passed your tests here, Jonathan, but you’re still not one of us. And more to the point...” He lowers head, mouth hovering a bare inch from John’s parted lips. “You are on Continental grounds, a Continental of which I am the manager. Now, we all serve the Table but this is New York City, and New York City is and always will be a realm unto itself.” Winston draws back a little, just enough to see John’s pupils dilate, just enough to see John lean forward and unconsciously follow his retreating mouth. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Jonathan?”

He gives John’s cock a single, firm stroke. John gasps in surprise, unthinkingly reaching out to steady himself, and when Winston swiftly moves out of the way John loses his balance and falls to his knees. 

“Just so, Jonathan,” Winston says. His voice is very, very quiet. He slides his fingers into John's hair and pushes down, forcing him to keep his head bowed. “ _Just_ so.” 

He waits for the nod of acquiescence before stepping away again. John slowly looks up and meets his gaze head-on, but, Winston notes, makes no move to stand. He looks more dishevelled than Winston has ever seen him, face flushed, a little out of breath, and — Winston pointedly glances down — yes. Still hard. And yet, the look on his face is as determined and unwavering as ever.

Winston gestures to the clothing piled up on a nearby chair.

“Get dressed, Jonathan, and prepare your things. You’ll be going to Italy for the final stage of your training next week.” He pauses. "And until you leave," he adds, "you will not touch yourself. Not even once."

Winston leaves the office without waiting for a response, but he knows with absolute certainty that John will follow his orders to the letter.

***

“The usual tutors, sir?” Charon asks. 

“Yes. I’ve spoken to Julius already; they know he’s coming. Make arrangements with the Tailor, the Sommelier, and the Cartographer. And arrange for language lessons, too.” Winston pauses, considering. “But limit his interaction with associates of anyone who has a seat at the Table.”

“The local representatives, you mean?”

“Just the Camorra for now,” Winston replies. “I don’t want them to meet. Not yet.”

Charon says nothing, simply marking the request and leaving it be, just as Winston had known he would. Still, he feels the urge to explain himself. Charon’s silences were often as compelling as other people’s direct questions, and it was a skill that even Winston was not entirely immune to. 

“It may be inevitable,” he concedes, “but I’d like to forestall that disaster for as long as possible.”

“You seem very certain that disaster will occur.” 

“Beautiful young men with more power than they know how to use?” Winston raises an eyebrow. “I have no idea why I’d assume the worst.”

A flash of amusement lightens Charon’s eyes. “Duly noted, sir. And John himself? Is he prepared?”

Winston thinks of the look in John’s eyes the last time they’d seen each other. John still on his knees, still hard, still meeting Winston’s gaze directly despite Winston making it clear that only one of them held any real power, record-breaking test results notwithstanding. Unflinching, Winston thinks, and unashamed. Respectful, yes, but still absolutely focused on the goal at hand. A goal that was entirely his own, unrelated to the rules or The Continental or, even, to the Table.

“Oh, he’s prepared, Charon,” Winston replies. “The real question is whether the Table is prepared for _him_.”

***

Winston raises his glass. 

“A toast, Jonathan,” he says, and waits for John to follow suit.

“What are we toasting to?” 

“Why, your imminent departure, of course.” He taps his glass against John’s. “And your imminent arrival at the Table.” 

“I need to pass all the tests first,” John points out, taking a small, brief sip. Always just enough to be polite, Winston observes, but never enough to get drunk. He lapses into silence, as he often does, staring into the depths of the liquid in his glass. Red as the blood he’s learned to spill over the past few months; rare as the skill he’d always possessed. And as expensive as the services they'll both provide, once John has taken the vow.

“You’re concerned you won’t pass,” Winston says, mildly surprised. “Why? You’ve passed all the tests here in New York.”

John glances at him, briefly, before going back to staring into his wine glass. “My motivations,” he says at length, “are clearer here.” 

Winston laughs a little. “Oh, Jonathan,” he murmurs.

John’s face hardens. “I’m not a child —”

“Oh, I know,” Winston interrupts. “Believe me, I know.” He pauses and narrows his eyes. “But that’s not the whole of it, is it? There’s something else that’s bothering you.”

John is silent for a long time, so long that Winston wonders if he’ll answer at all. He simply keeps staring into his drink, watching the tiny whirlpool of wine as he swirls it around the glass.

“You’ll be here when I get back.” 

It's not said like a question. It’s a statement of fact, absolute, and John suddenly looks up when he says it, staring directly into Winston’s eyes as though daring him to deny it. 

“The manager is always in, Jonathan,” Winston replies.

“And when I’m back, and my vows have been said and witnessed, and my name is written in the Book —”

“You’ll have access to all the privileges that service to the Table provides.” 

John licks his lips. “Including the right to request a meeting with the manager.”

Winston takes another sip of his wine. He smiles and runs his tongue over his lower lip, chasing a stray drop.

“Including that, yes.”

John briefly closes his eyes. He takes a single, deep breath, and when he opens his eyes again there’s a sharp focus in them that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“Then I was wrong,” he says. He takes another sip of wine himself, gaze never leaving Winston’s face. “My motivations will be as clear there as they are here.”

Winston raises his glass again, and this time, it’s John who makes the toast.

“To my return to New York,” he says. “And a future appointment.”

And Winston taps his glass and laughs, because it sounds exactly like he’d hoped it would: half like a promise, and half like a threat. 

***

“Jonathan.” He smiles, wide and warm.

“Winston.” John smiles too, but smaller, things held back in the tight corners of his mouth. He looks — 

“No longer small change, I see.”

Winston stops when he’s within arm’s reach, taking the time to openly admire the picture John makes standing there in the Contentinental’s lobby. Another black suit, but this one was made by _il sarto della Continental di Roma_ , the Tailor of the Continental of Rome — widely considered to be the best Tailor in all the world. Winston can tell his work at a glance; every cut and seam showing off John’s considerable assets but still allowing room for god knows how many concealed weapons.

But it isn’t just the suit, Winston thinks. John himself is different now — how he carries himself, how he moves; the measured and guarded look in his eyes. He’d never been what anyone would call talkative but now, six months in Rome and one very specific vow later, John is less an introvert than he is a coiled and tightened spring, ready at a moment’s notice to strike with such speed and silent efficiency that you’d never even see him coming. 

In other words, he looks _perfect_.

“I’ve taken the vow,” John confirms. He meets Winston’s eyes but this time, there’s no flush of colour when he sees the approval Winston puts there for him to see. Instead, his smile just widens. “I’m ready to serve,” he adds.

“I’m sure you are,” Winston replies. “But first, one last formality. Charon?”

“I have it here.” Charon hefts the enormous tome onto the counter and flips it open to the latest page. 

“Is that — ?”

“Yes.” Winston looks on with amusement as John makes an aborted attempt to touch the edge of the leatherbound cover, managing to stop himself before he’d barely even raised his hand. Ready to be service, yes — but still with a lot to learn. 

“I imagine you’ve given this a lot of thought already?” Winston asks.

John nods. “I’m ready,” he says again, and the way he glances over, the way his eyes sweep lighting-fast from Winston’s face down to his feet and back up again, makes it clear that the repetition of words was no accident. 

“Very well,” Winston says. He gestures to Charon and the Book. “Moment of truth, Jonathan.” 

“Your name?” Charon asks, pen poised over the page. 

“Wick," is the immediate reply. “My name,” he says clearly, “is John Wick.” 

“John Wick,” Charon repeats. He inscribes the name into the appropriate field before stamping the page with the official Continental seal. 

“My name has been spoken,” John says.

“The name has been entered,” Charon replies.

“And the entry has been witnessed,” Winston finishes. He reaches over and signs the seal. “And with that,” he says, straightening up, “welcome to the fold, Jonathan.” 

Charon offers his hand, which John shakes with a smile more genuine than Winston has ever seen on him. 

“Welcome, Mr. Wick. It will be a pleasure doing business with you, I’m sure.” He flips the Book closed and carefully picks it up off the bench. “But if you’ll excuse me, there’s still some paperwork that needs to be done. I’ll send your details to Administration, who will add you to the Directory. And then —” Charon smiles. “Your name will be released and you will be free to work.” He pauses. “To serve,” he corrects himself, and if there’s a trace of a smirk on his inscrutable face when he leaves, Winston chooses to ignore it. 

“He said there was still some paperwork,” John says, when they’re alone. “But can I assume —

“It’s never wise to assume anything, Jonathan.”

John frowns a little and Winston resists the urge to laugh. Yes, he thinks again. There was still a _lot_ he had to learn.

John takes a deep breath.

“Will the manager be in tonight?” he asks.

“The manager is always in.”

“And may I make an appointment with him?”

Winston tilts his head to the side.

“How much time do you need?”

John squares his shoulders and looks Winston in the eye.

“As much or as little as he wants to give me.” 

A lot to learn, Winston thinks, for a third time. But damn if he didn’t learn fast. 

“I will be of service,” John adds, head bowing slightly, the layer of formality finally making that sweet shade of pink spread across his cheekbones again. 

Winston smiles.

“You will serve,” he agrees, and watches, delighted, as the blush starts to deepen.

***

It's late when John shows up at his office that night, although he is, unsurprisingly, on time to the very second. 

Winston hadn't just been making a power play when he told John he wouldn't be free till after 10pm. He really was that busy, but if it kept John waiting all day too, if it made him spend hours wondering what Winston might have in store for him, well. So much the better. 

Still, Winston isn’t one to waste an opportunity. He knows — they both do — that their time is limited. John’s name is in the Directory now; anyone with the coin to afford it could buy his time. But Winston, of course, didn’t need to buy anything. 

"You will speak only when spoken to," he says, as soon as John has closed and locked the door behind him. "And if you refuse an order, the appointment is over. These are the terms of the service you offer tonight." 

John nods, once, but says nothing.

A fast learner indeed, Winston thinks, smiling a little. He takes a sip of the bourbon he'd been nursing before John arrived — Blanton's, John's own preferred drink. The choice hadn’t been accidental. 

"Take your clothes off, Jonathan."

He moves to obey instantly, shedding his jacket in seconds, but —

"No," Winston says. His voice is quiet but John goes still at once. "Slowly,” Winston adds, smile sharpening until it cuts through the shell of Johns self-possession and Winston gets what he’d been aiming for — another blush, sweeping across his cheeks and down over his neck.

For a long moment, John just stares at him. The flush on his face is more noticeable than the last one he'd worn and Winston wonders if it could be embarrassment — the first time, possibly, that Winston has ever seen it colour John’s face. But then John takes a breath and starts moving again, gaze unflinching as he slowly loosens his tie, pulls out the collar bar, unfastens his cufflinks. Every movement is slow and precise; not just following Winston’s order but extrapolating what Winston had really asked for — what Winston _wants_. This is something the John he met at the theatre would never have understood, but now — Winston takes another sip of his drink, enjoying the view. Rome, it seems, had taught John well.

John isn’t just getting undressed. Every action is a deliberate tease — John is putting on a _show_.

His long fingers slowly twist each button of his shirt free, gradually revealing more and more of the bare skin beneath it: the prominent edge of a collarbone, the muscled curve of his chest, the smooth flat planes of his stomach. When the shirt is completely undone and hanging open, John just stands there, watching Winston with a considering look on his face. Then he turns around before letting it slip down his arms, the muscles in his back rippling as he shrugs out of the sleeves, uncovering inch by slow, dragging inch the tattoo that takes up most of his back.

He pauses there, standing still, letting Winston look. 

_Fortis fortuna adiuvat_. Fortune favours the bold.

“Turn around, Jonathan.”

He does so, and Winston stares openly, mouth curving into another small smile. Stripped to the waist, arms and shoulders defined with strong, lean muscle, semi-hard cock ruining the line of his tailor-made suit. But most arresting of all are John’s eyes — laser-focused and burning with the will that Winston knows will turn him into the best of all of them. The best, the most admired. The most feared. And for now, Winston gets it all to himself.

He gestures for John to continue undressing. 

The belt is unbuckled and slowly pulled off, the sound of the leather sliding through the loops oddly loud in the otherwise silent office. Then the slacks are unbuttoned, and then unzipped, before John pushes them down and steps out of them completely, toeing off his shoes and socks as he goes.

“This brings back memories,” Winston says, as John stands, still and silent, in nothing but his underwear now. He steps closer and runs a finger over John’s torso, moving from his throat to his chest and all the way down to the line of hair at his abdomen. John inhales sharply at the touch. “Do you remember?”

“Yes.” John pauses. “Before I went to Rome.”

“Mmm.” Winston continues moving his finger, lightly tracing the outline of John’s cock through the thin fabric of his underwear. “You were hard then, too.”

John stays still, but Winston can see him struggling already. He steps back again. 

“Keep going, Jonathan.”

There’s a brief hesitation — the pause of a single breath — before John moves to obey. And then he tugs his underwear down, over his ass and over his erection, down his long, lean thighs — until, finally, he’s fully naked. 

Winston sets his drink aside and spends several long minutes just taking it all in. John is almost glowing in the low light of the office, the summer in Rome burnishing his skin pale gold, although there’s a definite pinkish hue still spreading down his face and neck. Aside from the tattoo on his back his skin is surprisingly unmarked, just a handful of scars scattered here and there — smaller ones on his arms and one larger, older one on his ribs. 

Winston reaches out and traces it with the tip of a finger. John’s reaction is immediate — practically a full-body flinch, but one that’s cut off almost as soon as it starts. He goes perfectly still again, so still Winston isn’t even sure he’s breathing, every muscle tensed up as Winston continues to run his finger over the damaged tissue, back and forth, again and again.

“It’s just a finger,” Winston says. “Not a blade.”

Gradually, John’s body starts to relax again.

“I’m sure it can still do some damage,” John replies.

Winston grins. 

“Perhaps you’ll find out, in time.” 

He steps behind John and repeats the action, dragging a single finger down from the nape of his neck, following the ridges of his spine, and then just barely dipping into the cleft of his ass. John has gone rigid beneath his touch again, barely drawing a breath as Winston pushes in a little deeper, finger grazing his entrance. John’s hands are balled into fists at his sides but he nevertheless manages to keep still. Winston laughs a little, a low rumble that makes John tense up even more.

“Are you really so self-controlled, Jonathan?” he muses. “Or are you simply… efficient?” 

“Efficient?” John repeats, an edge of strain in his voice.

“You know what the quickest route is to get to your goal,” Winston says, finger still rubbing at that same spot in a rhythmic, calculated tease. “If losing control would get you there faster, then that’s what you’d do. But you know it’s not, so you don’t.” 

“I’m here,” John says, panting a little, chest rising and falling more and more rapidly, body starting to betray him as he pushes back, just a little, against Winston’s teasing hand, “I’m here to be of service, Winston.” 

“Yes,” Winston agrees, leaning down and brushing his lips over the side of John’s neck. He can feel John’s pulse beating hard and fast against his mouth and resists the urge to chase it, to clamp his mouth down over his pulse point and lick and taste and bite. “And I’m here to take full advantage of that.” 

Winston presses in a little closer. John gasps audibly when he feels Winston’s erection brush against his hip — the only sign, really, of just how tenuous Winston’s grip on his own self-control really is. 

“Tell me, Jonathan,” Winston whispers into his ear, reaching around and dragging his fingertips over the tops of John’s thighs. Feather-light strokes, over and over, each pass getting closer and closer to his cock but never _quite_ touching it, until John starts to shake with the effort of keeping still. “What do you want to do right now?”

“Serve,” John answers instantly. Winston chuckles, mouth still against John’s ear, and sees John’s cock twitch in response. 

“That’s not an answer.” Winston abruptly pulls his hands away but steps even closer, until his cock is pressed hard against the cleft of John’s bare ass. “You disappoint me, Jonathan.” 

“Fuck,” John gasps, uprepared and more than a little surprised. He instinctively leans back, mouth dropping open a little as he tries to press himself against the whole length of Winston’s body behind him. 

“Ah,” Winston breathes. He’s still fully clothed and from the way John can’t seem to stop rubbing against him, the contrast with his own nakedness is driving John a little mad. “Is this what you want?” He tugs John closer and rolls his hips. John’s breath hitches and his head tilts back, exposing the line of this throat. “Answer me, Jonathan.”

“Yes.” John rubs against him again, moaning a little as Winston slowly slides his fingers into the hair at his groin. “I’ve been —” He suddenly cuts himself off, trying to go still again, grasping for some semblance of control. 

“Been what?” Winston insists. 

John closes his eyes as his face starts to burn.

“Waiting,” he admits, voice tight with need. “Wanting,” he pants, “thinking about — about — oh, _fuck_ —” 

The rest of his sentence is lost to another moan when Winston starts teasing his nipples, mouthing at the juncture of his shoulder and neck at the same time. He presses back harder, rubbing his bare ass against Winston’s cock with increasing desperation. The strength and immediacy of John’s reactions are a little surprising but not entirely unexpected — as reticent as John was Winston had seen something burning in his eyes almost from the moment they’d met. There were things moving deep beneath that deceptively blank surface, things that John kept a very tight rein on. Things that Winston knows, in due time, he’ll be able to break free.

“About getting fucked, Jonathan?” Winston asks in a low whisper. “Is that what you thought about?” He scrapes his teeth over John’s pulse point and is rewarded with another strangled moan. “Me bending you over my office desk, perhaps, while guests walked right past the door, completely unaware that you were being fucked hard and raw?” He reaches down and rubs a thumb over John's lower abdomen, just shy of his leaking cock. “Fucked so hard,” he adds softly, “that you couldn't even make a noise? So hard that all you could do was close your eyes and take it, and hope that you’d still be able to walk the next day.”

John makes a choked sort of sound, shutting his eyes tight as he manages to nod.

“Was thinking all you did, Jonathan?”

John swallows. 

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“I —” John licks his lips. “I touched myself, thinking about it. When I was in Rome.” Heat floods his face again. “And I thought about it a lot.”

Winston presses a smile into John’s shoulder. 

“And did you come, Jonathan, thinking about it?”

“Yes,” John gasps, when Winston gives one of his nipples a hard pinch. “Yes. Always. Every time.” 

Winston gets impossibly harder at the thought of it — at the mental image of John thrusting hard into his own tight fist, thinking about Winston fucking him. Or perhaps John had fucked _himself_ while he fantasised that it was Winston moving inside him instead — lying in bed, perhaps, legs spread wide as he desperately shoved a dildo into his own tight hole. Or on his knees, maybe, riding it with the same violent grace he used to take down any and all opponents. In any case, it makes Winston gasp a little himself, the urge to just shove John against the wall and fuck him senseless almost overwhelming. 

But Winston didn't become the manager of the New York Continental by giving into his baser instincts, no matter how tempting they may be. John is here to serve. And Winston — Winston is going to be _served_.

He gives John’s neck one final taste before letting go and stepping away.

John turns and blinks at him, swaying a little on his feet, disoriented by the sudden loss of contact.

“As enjoyable as I’m sure that would be,” Winston murmurs, “I think you’d enjoy it a little _too_ much. And your enjoyment, Jonathan, is not my priority this evening.” 

It takes longer than Winston expected for the clarity to return to John’s eyes, for the fog of lust to lift enough that he understands what Winston means. Eventually, John takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“I will serve,” he says formally. His voice is unsteady but clear, and his gaze runs all over Winston, hungry and heated, taking in the contrast of Winston's still-immaculate suit and the very obvious bulge between his legs. “I will be of service.” 

Winston smiles. 

“On your knees, Jonathan.”

He kneels at once, no questions asked. Winston takes a step closer but John keeps his head bowed until Winston forces him to lift it, two fingers under his chin tipping his head back. 

“You’ve never been one to waste words,” Winston says, cupping John’s jaw and running his thumb over John’s bottom lip. “But I’m sure your mouth could be useful for things other than talking.”

John parts his lips, tongue darting out and catching the edge of Winston’s thumb. He looks up, through his eyelashes, the expression on his face one of barely concealed eagerness. Winston, god help him, actually finds it a little charming. 

“Please,” John says, when Winston makes no further move. “Please, Winston, let me —” 

John abruptly falls silent when Winston pulls his hand away from his face. Winston stares at him for a moment, taking in his look of anticipation, at the open need in his eyes and the parted line of his wide, lush mouth. And at last Winston frees his aching cock, unzipping his fly but not undressing any further. 

“Mouth only,” he says, the quietness of his voice not making it any less of an order. “Hands behind your back, Jonathan.” 

John closes his eyes, something almost like relief flickering over his face. And then he obeys, hands locked at the small of his back and mouth opening a little wider. 

“Hungry?” Winston asks.

John licks his lips.

“Starving.”

Winston laughs a little and steps closer, until his cock brushes John’s waiting mouth. He runs his fingers through John’s soft, dark hair, hand coming to rest at the back of his head.

“Show me how badly you want to serve, Jonathan,” Winston says. And as soon as the words are out of his mouth, John immediately does just that.

He starts by sucking lightly on the tip, sucking and sucking until Winston’s breathing goes shallow and his fingers twitch a little against John’s head. Then John pulls back, licking up and down the length of him and managing to find every spot that makes Winston gasp, that makes his hips start moving against his will — mouthing along the pulsing vein near the base of his cock, tongue flicking against the underside of the head. He watches Winston closely, an intense and greedy look in his eyes, as though hoarding every reaction he can get.

“I was right,” Winston murmurs, breathless and rough, as John starts licking the ridge and tonguing the slit, maintaining eye contact the whole time. “Your mouth _is_ very —”

He cuts off with a surprised gasp when John suddenly swallows him down. Winston can only stare as his thoughts shudder to a halt, incapable of focusing on anything but the wet heat that surrounds him, on the strong, steady suction as John’s head moves between his legs. And then John does something with his tongue as he pulls back, some unspeakable, impossible thing that makes Winston’s legs shake and his fist tighten reflexively in John’s hair. 

“Jon — Jonathan,” he chokes out, unable to stop himself, hips thrusting hard. His outburst and the loss of control just make John redouble his efforts; sucking harder, taking him in deeper, moaning around his cock like he really _is_ starved for it, like he really has spent night after night coming into his own hand at the very thought of Winston coming inside _him_.

“Did you think about this, too?” Winston asks roughly. “My cock in your mouth? Your tongue on me? You on your knees and letting me —”

John moans again, louder this time, a pleading look in his eyes. His face is a flushed and debauched mess but it only makes Winston that much harder, knowing how pristine John had looked when he first arrived — knowing that he was the one who’d shattered that carefully constructed veneer.

“You want me to do it, don’t you,” Winston whispers. “You want it more than you want to be touched, more than you want to come —”

And John makes a strained, desperate noise, still sucking and licking and arms still locked behind his back, begging Winston to do it with everything except his voice. 

Winston grabs hold of his head and tilts it back, one hand on either side of his face, holding John still and steady and angled just so.

“Evidently,” he murmurs, “you _will_ get fucked tonight, after all.”

Winston thrusts in. Slowly at first, pushing into John’s mouth until he feels John forcing himself to relax. But Winston keeps going, hitting the back of John’s throat, and keeps on going even further than that — deeper and deeper and John doesn't choke but tears of strain start welling in his eyes, although he makes no move whatsoever to pull back. He just stares up at Winston, swallowing and swallowing and taking in more and more until, finally, he’s swallowed Winston right down to the root. 

Winston is panting hard himself now, the tightness of John’s throat and the tears in his eyes wearing away what little self-control he has left. And then John blinks, and those tears spill over, and even that last tiny shred evaporates — Winston’s hips start moving, hard smooth rolls building up a steady rhythm that has him gasping, then moaning, then swearing out loud. And then that rhythm starts breaking down too, starts to splinter and crack until there's nothing left but the instinctive need for _more_ , moving with no control and even less finesse and John just takes it, _welcomes_ it, panting and gasping and whole body straining as his tears continue to fall. 

Winston feels orgasm approaching and grips John’s head even tighter, keeping him locked in place. 

“You’ll take this, too,” he says harshly. Another order, not a question, but John just moans around him again, the sound vibrating around his entire cock, and — Winston can’t help it. He thrusts hard, panting, thumbs tracing the curve of John’s cheekbones and wiping away his tears. And then the ghost of a smile appears in John’s eyes and before Winston can question it, John does that thing with his tongue again, that indescribable thing that makes Winston cry out, eyes rolling back in his head as a white-hot burst of pure pleasure surges through his veins, and without any warning he’s coming — hard and sudden and bone-shatteringly _good_ , coming and coming and spilling down John’s throat even as his hips keep moving, as he keeps fucking John’s perfect, greedy mouth.

He pulls back when he’s finally spent, but doesn’t pull out all the way — not yet. Instead, he keeps his cock resting between John’s lips as he gets his breath back, watching John watch him. John still has a feverish look in his eyes but the desperation is gone now, replaced with something almost like — satisfaction, perhaps, or even pride. 

A need fulfilled, Winston thinks. Or a service rendered.

Eventually, Winston steps back. He pulls the cravat from his neck and cleans himself off before zipping up his fly.

“You have served,” Winston says, when he’s sure his voice will be steady. He tosses the now-ruined strip of fabric at John's chest. John catches it — of course he does — and just stares at it for a moment, lying across his hands. Then he looks up, a question in his eyes. “The appointment is over, Jonathan,” Winston adds. “Clean yourself up and meet me in the courtyard before you check out next week.” 

Winston is already at the door by the time John finally speaks. His voice is very hoarse but there’s a trace of dry amusement in it, too.

“Don’t I get a coin?”

Winston turns around to face him. John is standing now and the worst of the mess on his face has been wiped away, but he’s still completely naked. 

“You offered your service, Jonathan.”

“And you accepted it.”

“I did,” Winston agrees. “A transaction, yes? Your service, for my enjoyment.” Then he gestures to the _other_ mess, the one splashed over John’s stomach and thighs. “But apparently, you enjoyed yourself too. In which case —” Winston smiles. “Consider yourself paid.” 

He leaves without waiting for a response, but the sound of John’s quiet laughter follows him out the door anyway.

***

Winston looks up from the newspaper he’s reading when he hears distinctive footsteps approach. John is striding towards him, a dark silhouette against the glare of the sun rising behind him.

“How was your first week of service, Jonathan?” he asks, when he’s within earshot.

John gives the question serious thought. 

“Educational.”

Winston chuckles. 

“I’m sure it was.” He sets the paper aside to get a better look at him. Another black suit, a three-piece this time, complete with collar bar, tie and cufflinks. Winston raises an eyebrow, openly curious.

“I have to work,” John says, answering the unspoken question.

“A job already,” Winston says, pleased. “Open or exclusive?”

“Open.” A brief pause. “For now.” 

Winston shakes his head. What would have sounded like conceit in anyone else just sounds like a statement of fact in John. The sky is blue, the Earth is round, and John Wick will get a job done so well that soon enough, it will be as immutable a truth as the colour of the daytime sky.

“Who owns the contract?” Winston asks. 

“Viggo Tarasov.” 

“Hmm. Not a major player.”

John shrugs. “Not yet.” 

Winston smiles. “Confidence suits you, Jonathan.” He sits up a little. “Well, I know better than to ask if you’d like to join me for breakfast.” He gestures to John’s full suit. “You’re uniformed up and ready to go.”

John nods. “I don’t like wasting time. Not when there’s work to be done.”

“Yes,” Winston murmurs. “I’ve gathered that.”

Heat flares in John’s eyes, clear but very carefully controlled. 

“When the work is over, though —”

“Management is always in, Jonathan.” Winston smiles again. “And always willing to entertain offers of service, should any be made.” 

John straightens. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

Winston raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“No.” John takes a deep breath. “When I finish the job, I’ll have earned more coins,” he says. “Enough, maybe, to request a service of my own.” 

Winston meets his eyes and shakes his head again, amused. “It doesn’t work that way. But still...” He trails off, gaze raking over John’s immaculate appearance now and comparing it to the dishevelled mess he’d left in his office a few days ago. “Exceptions can be made, perhaps. At the manager’s discretion. After all,” he says with a shrug, “what’s the point of having power if one doesn’t occasionally abuse it?”

“Rules and consequences,” John points out. “I thought they were the foundations of the Table.”

“Oh, they are,” Winston replies. “But this is New York City, Jonathan. And here, the rules are a little different.” 

“And the consequences?” 

Winston’s smile sharpens. 

“Remain to be seen.”

John doesn’t reply straight away, letting that sink in. Eventually, he nods. 

“I’ll be sure to make another appointment,” he says slowly, “ahead of my next stay. There’ll be a lot to... discuss, after my first official job.”

“I look forward to it,” Winston says. “Provided I have the time, of course.” 

“Of course,” John agrees easily enough, but that iron will is back in his eyes, as well as the simple, quiet conviction of a man who knows that some things are all but inevitable. “Winston,” he adds, with a small nod. 

Winston holds his coffee cup out in farewell. John nods again before turning and walking away, across the courtyard and back to the hotel.

“Oh, and Jonathan?” Winston calls out, just before he reaches the doors that lead back to the lobby. John pauses, half-turning towards him. Winston grins. “Happy hunting.”

A faint smile crosses John’s face. He nods again and a few seconds later he’s gone, the doors swinging shut behind him.

Winston picks up the newspaper again. John had cost a small fortune to get out of the Tarkovsky Theatre, but even the Director couldn’t have known what she was giving up when Winston made the offer. She couldn’t have, or else she’d have asked for an exponentially higher sum.

And Winston would have paid it. John hadn’t been like other apprentices back then and now, vows taken and name in the Book, John Wick is nothing like anyone in service to the Table. 

“A sound investment,” Winston says to himself, mouth curving into a satisfied smile. He straightens his paper and finds the place where he’d left off. “A sound investment indeed.”


End file.
